Miss Liz is stopping here for a day tomorrow on her way to Italy.

Happily my sister and I are leaving Tuesday for a week there too. In fact Lizzie is meeting us in Venice so we can all laugh and eat and drink and shop together.

 This morning David and I were having coffee. I said I’m sure that the first thing Liz will say when she gets here is “Where’s my cat?” She and Elvis have a real love affair going.

 David wondered why if Liz loves cats so much she doesn’t get one.

I reminded him that he shouldn’t encourage it since he hates that Liz brings her animals in the bed.

“Rupert doesn’t sleep in the bed any more. I put my foot down. I told Liz that when I’m in Santa Fe that little motherfucker isn’t getting in the bed with us.” Then he went on and on about how he can’t believe that “snarky little shit” is still alive.

“I was so sure that I was rid of him a few months ago when he had an operation for cancer. I was even nice to him for a few weeks thinking that he wasn’t going to be around much longer. The fucking dog is FIFTEEN. Not only was he cured, now he shits when he barks which is all the time. That little bastard will outlive me.”

He had that real stern look on his face that he makes when he’s describing what he’d do to some waiter or cab driver who doesn’t fulfill his duties to David’s satisfaction. No details but it’s always bloody and usually accompanied by a mime of him shooting the person in the head for his misdeeds.

This was pretty tough talk from a guy who a few minutes later winced when Elvis threw his fake mouse in the air and accidentally brushed his nails against the couch while he was reaching for it.

“Every time he scrapes stuff it’s me that gets in trouble.”

All I’m thinking is “Why don’t you mimic shooting him in the head you tough talking little pussy?”

But did I say it? No because I too am a tough talking little pussy.